


Rise of the Beggar King

by EndDragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Anti-Hero, Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-04 09:08:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndDragon/pseuds/EndDragon
Summary: Note: This will be a multi-chapter fic beginning in season 1 GoTtv. As the story diverges and develops from there, some plots which I do not claim to own and are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin will follow through as sub-plots and such. I've been wanting to do an Anti-Hero fic for a while and Viserys seems a good character to try and bring that to fruition. Some book elements may make it into the story, but they shall be minor. (If you think Viserys will be kind in this fic or he will go to Westeros with Khal Drogo, this story is not for you. I plan on character deaths throughout.)Summ: Viserys Targaryen, the third of his name. Heir to the legacy and throne left to him by his father, but robbed from him by the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, Viserys lusts for his return to the Seven Kingdoms and the crown he should wear. Being an arrogant man capable of extreme acts of cruelty, can he succeed? Or shall he perish and be lost to a footnote in history.





	Rise of the Beggar King

* * *

  **Rise of the Beggar King**

**Chapter 1: Prelude**

* * *

As rain came pouring down with the ferocity of hail and the night sky roared with thunder and flashing strikes of lightning, a lonely island out at sea braced itself against the whirling, crashing waves against it's coast. Atop the island's base of high cliffs and rocky terrain sat a towering fortress of jagged-edged walls, and spiraling towers. Engraved throughout the vast fortress stonework were sculpted imagery of Dragon's, fiery beasts of old that had long since gone extinct from the world.

 _Dragonstone_. The ancestral homestead of House Targaryen, the rightful rulers to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdom's of Westeros. However, on this night in particular, Dragonstone had become refuge, more than homestead. For within the confines of it's mighty fortifications were the last remaining Targaryen's, The Mad King's pregnant wife, Rhaella, and his five year old son and living heir, Viserys Targaryen, all of whom had been sent to Island on the King's orders in an attempt to keep them safe from a conflict that was steadfast in being named Robert's Rebellion by it's supporters.

Screams echoed throughout the halls of Dragonstone as Queen Rhaella enunciated every labour pain that came forward, she had been bed ridden for close to a day already and the child stowed away in her belly was still yet to rear itself. In the early hours of the onset birth, Viserys had been a comforting companion at his mother's side, though as the hours drew on, the young boy's need for attention and knack for distracting handmaidens and midwife alike to get it, was eventually sent to await the birth of his coming sibling outside his mother's quarters.

Time passed but the storm raging overhead did not. Sitting upon a stone bench outside his mother's door, legs dangling over the edge, young Viserys yawned into a balled up hand, dreadfully bored. His eyes drifting to a near by arched window across the curving hallway he found himself in, the said window showcasing a steady stream of rain water so thick it resembled a waterfall gushing down. With little else to interest him as he waited, the boy slipped from the bench and took the few steps needed to cross over to the window sill, mesmerized by how unrelenting the storm outside was. Wishing to get a better look at the magnificent jagged lines of light that etched themselves in the dark sky, Viserys stood as tall as he could upon the tips of his toes only to find an even more interesting sight in the far off distance of the sea.

A soft glimmer of lanterns shimmered faintly amidst a shadowy mass of ships fighting against the forceful winds and high waves, undeterred in their eerie approach to the Island. Despite being both curious as to who they were and why they were coming, the young Targaryen was startled by the sound of booted feet thudding in a hurry against the stone carved floors of the hall. A man with raggedy grey hair, black robes and a maester's chain dangling from around his neck flew by Viserys at such a speed, the young boy didn't think it possible a man of such elderly age capable of.

While the piqued curiosity  he held for the approaching armada of ships was quickly lost, Viserys watched as the Maester vanished behind the door of the room his mother struggled to conceive in. Shuffling as swiftly as his small legs would allow, the silver haired boy pressed his ear to the hardwood of the door, eager to hear whatever he could, disappointingly all he could make out were incoherent mumbles of muffled voices and a sharp, ear piercing baby's cry, his interest became suddenly renewed as the muffled voices beyond the door began to grow more frantic and panicked. Unable to contain himself and wanting to be back with his mother, Viserys reached for the brass handle of the door, the tips of his fingers brushing against it just as the door yanked open to reveal the Maester who had passed him by just a few short moments ago, a wrapped bundle of cloth tucked securely in the nook of one of his arms.

Paying the old man no mind, Viserys craned his neck to try and see past the Maester, the sight that befell him was a curious one. The usually jovial women who had long served his mother's every beck and call, appeared grief striken with trails of glistening tears down their cheeks, a few he could even hear whailing hysterically. To what had caused such pain, he wasn't sure to know as the old man before him grabbed hold of his shoulder and ushered him down the hall at a hasty pace.

"Come young Prince, we must go now," breathed the man, his stride was quick and Viserys had to nearly run to keep up with him.

"Where's Mama?" questioned Viserys, confused by her absence and his dislike for dragged about by some old man he didn't know.

A brief silence ensued as the Maester came to an abrupt stop, Viserys caught off guard ran straight into the back of the mans legs and bounced off him at a stumble.

Crouching down so he was eye level with the young Targaryen heir, the raggedy Master used his one free hand to clasp the boy on the shoulder, giving him a tender, yet sympathetic squeeze. "The Queen... Your mother has passed, your Grace. It's just you and your sister now, and we must get you off this island before the Usurper's men arrive."

"You... Ship, her?" sounded out Viserys, the word used by the old man escaped his young vocabulary and the news of his mother's death did not register to him, after all, what was death to the mind of a boy whose father had sheltered him his entire life from the realities of the world.

"It matter's not, your Grace, now come, follow me," rushed the Maester, getting to his feet , the raggedy man bounded off once again through the maze like corridors and stairways of Dragonstone.

Panting and near out of breath in his lungs, Viserys was grateful when they finally came to a halt at a set of two large wooden doors framed in iron trim. At the height of ones shoulders were elaborate, bronze dragons serving as handles. There was a brief pause as the Maester listened to the gusts of wind rattling the great doors on their hinges before pushing them open, the storm outside greeting them with scorn as harsh winds assaulted them and heavy rain stinged their skin upon impact. Clothes drenched within seconds of leaving the comforts of the citadel, the raggedy Maester hurried Viserys forward through the courtyard to Dragonstone's frontgate where two monsterously huge Dragonhead busts stood on either side, their stone mouths set agape as if ready to devour and burn any would be intruders or enemies.

The fierce dragonhead's couldn't be admired for long though as they began traversing the steep, winding pathway down to the Islands inlet. The wrapped bundle tucked in the arm of the Maester began to cry as it's cloth dampened under the rain, and it was a screeching sound Viserys loathed the second he heard it emitted. A boom of thunder cracked overhead, causing the crown prince to flinch and come close to losing his footing, yet, despite the rushing water that cascaded down the steps of the pathway like a river flowing downhill, the trio made it to the wet, sandy beachhead of the Island where a small row boat sat rocking in the shallow waters of the shore. Standing nearby in knee high seawater were three men dressed in chainmail, soaked and looking impatient.

"Could you take any longer, you damn bastard," growled one of the men as Viserys and the Maester drew closer. "Fucking Stannis Baratheon's coming to claim your head and you move like one of my fat goats!"

"Matter's were complicated," the Maester protested, he took a few steps into the shallows but stopped when he noticed Viserys wasn't following. "Come, my Prince, we are leaving."

Shaking his head, Viserys feared the open blackwater before him, more specifically he feared the thought of being on such a tiny boat in weather as violent, and unkind as it was this very night.

"Fuck it," grumbled another armoured man, as he staggered his way through the water, plucking the young Viserys up under the pits of his arms and carrying him to the boat.

Viserys flailed at first, trying to writhe free from the mans grasp but it was to no avail as he found himself plunked down onto one of the small wood benches of the boat, the men and the Maester climbing in after him, blocking him from any attempt of exit. Powerless but to watch as the three men drabbed in chainmail grabbed hold of the boats oars, they began to row with such vigor not even the strong waves could slow them. With each passing stroke of the paddle on the blackwater, the looming citadel of Dragonstone grew smaller until it faded from sight and a new one emerged, a large ship doning a black sail with the three-headed dragon of his family's sigil swayed in the open waters of the sea. It was to be that ship that would courier him and his newborn sibling to safety across the Narrow Sea and ultimately, to many future years of exile, a life of poverty and the eventual, breaking of relative sanity.


End file.
